Twenty in Twenty
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: An author convinces the White Collar personnel to take on the FFN challenge - see inside for details - and discovers that it's kind of alarming what otherwise intelligent television characters will do for baked goods.


Disclaimer: I don't own WC.

Details: It's the Fanfiction Dot Net challenge! (I just made this up, but if anyone else wishes to answer the call, go for it. You can – and should – take it in any direction you want.) Here's the idea: use all 20 FFN categories in one work of fiction, and get through them as fast and as well as you can.

Fair Warning: I took up this challenge, and the result is complete insanity. It's not to be taken seriously. Please keep all your limbs inside the vehicle and your sense of humor in the upright and locked position for the duration of the ride. This contract hereby negates any liability toward the author (i.e., ME) should your sense of humor be flung from the car and meet with some calamity or other. Translation? Just roll with it and have fun. Neal and the gang certainly did.

* * *

**Twenty in Twenty**

_And so, there we were in the White Collar Division of the New York FBI field office. The White Collar characters had about 20 minutes to spare between cases and they agreed to help me take on the FFN challenge. _

_Of course, the "agreeing" part took a little longer than I expected._

Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Mozzie, Elizabeth Burke, Clinton Jones, Diana Barrigan, Reese Hughes, and Garrett Fowler were gathered on the small balcony overlooking the bullpen of an otherwise empty FBI office.

_Hi, everyone. So, this is your challenge: work through all 20 genres available on Fanfiction Dot Net in twenty minutes or less. Ready? Set? Humor!_

This got everyone's attention, but not in a good way.

"This is ridiculous. We're supposed to be working! Why should we help you take on this challenge?" Peter asked, crossing his arms.

_Um … cuz it'll be fun?_

Nobody moved. Somewhere, a cricket chirped.

_Okay, how about this. Chocolate brownies for everybody if you do it! Wheee!_

Mozzie shook his head. "No way, kid. Lactose."

"I'm allergic to nuts," Jones added.

"Not a fan of bittersweet chocolate," Neal threw in.

"And brownies are so 2008," Elizabeth said. When Peter gaped at her, she blinked. "What? I run an event company, sweetheart. I have to stay on trend!"

_Oh my God, people, you're killing me here. Fine. Jones and Neal? A basket each of strawberry-rosemary scones. You'll love them. Don't worry. Elizabeth and Peter? Small tower of gin-and-tonic cupcakes, you're welcome, and Mozzie, dairy-free cinnamon custard, dude. I got your back. Is everybody ELSE okay with the damn brownies?_

The rest of the group nodded.

_Good. Now get moving and do something ridiculous, or you'll be stuck on Humor forever!_

Hughes put his hands on his hips and spoke to the ceiling. "You listen to me, young lady. We're not going to embarrass ourselves for anyone's amusement. The FBI is a highly respected, important organization, and –"

Before he could finish, Fowler sneaked up on an unsuspecting Neal … and pantsed him. The ex-con yelped, rounded on the crooked OPR agent and gave chase, losing his hat, displaying his white boxer shorts to all and sundry, and ran down the stairs after Fowler while trying unsuccessfully to pull up his gray Armani trousers. Swan Lake it was not, but somehow he made it to the main level of the office in one piece.

"Get back here!" he hollered as he hobbled down the main hall of the office to where the pristine glass doors stood, pants around his knees. "I'll have your head on a platter for what you did to Kate, you f[bleep]!"

Fowler ran through the glass door that was open. Neal, very angry and not paying enough attention, slammed into the one that was closed. It was like a bird hitting a window. Everybody on the balcony gasped or winced and started to head for him.

Stunned by the impact, he staggered away slightly cross-eyed, tripped over his trouser hems and sprawled out on his back. He decided to take it all the way and pretend he'd been knocked senseless. This was reasonable, because between his top half and his bottom half, it looked as though he'd passed out in an alley after drunkenly letting fly behind a very exclusive nightclub. His lashes fluttered shut.

Everybody else was halfway across the bullpen.

_Freeze!_ They all froze as best as they could. Peter was balanced on one leg, arms pinwheeling as he tried not to fall over. Elizabeth steadied him.

_Okay, spinning the wheel … and we have … Mystery! Go!_

They charged over to the fallen con artist and gathered around him. Fowler, standing in the outer hallway, realized Neal was temporarily down for the count and slipped back in. Elizabeth immediately maneuvered Neal's head into her lap. Peter took off his coat and laid it over Neal's hips to preserve some of his dignity.

"Thanks," Neal said between his teeth.

"Shush," Peter said.

"Heavens to Betsy. This is very mysterious. Who could have done this to Neal." Mozzie delivered his line with all the conviction of particle board.

"That sucked," Fowler commented.

"_You_ suck," Mozzie snapped back.

"Oh, Neal." Elizabeth was very worried. "Neal, speak to me!"

"Can't," Neal said between his teeth again.

"Well, looks like Caffrey's dead," Fowler said with a grin, undoing his belt buckle and reaching for the zipper on his fly. "You know what that means, kiddies," he said cheerfully. "Time to desecrate the corpse!"

"Neal's not dead!" Elizabeth protested.

_Freeze!_ They all did. Elizabeth was panting but trying not to blink. _Tragedy!_

"Oh my God, he's dead!" Elizabeth shrieked. "Neal! NEAL!" Elizabeth's version of CPR was to shake Neal vigorously by the lapels and shout in his face. Neal's version of being dead was to impersonate a sack of potatoes and try to hold his mug.

_Freeze!_ Neal had to freeze with his back arched, and Elizabeth was all wide eyes and white knuckles on his lapel. _Hurt/Comfort!_

Elizabeth put Neal down. "Oh honey," she said, stroking his face gently. "I wish I could help you, but you're dead, so I guess that's that. ... Neal, dead people don't giggle."

"Hey, come on, time's a tickin'," Peter said. "We have to complete this category. Somebody hurt themselves, quick!"

Diana spotted a fake, breakaway Ming vase that was on its way to evidence – or perhaps the prop department in the author's brain – and smashed it satisfyingly against her head. Plaster scraps went everywhere. "Ow," she said, with no attempt at meaning it. "Jones, give me a hand, would you? That's how this crap goes, right?"

Jones chuckled as he picked her up bridal style. "I guess so. Don't worry, Diana, we'll get you checked out at the hospital, and then I'll take you someplace safe and warm and put you to bed." He put on his most charming smile.

Diana laughed. "Aw, that's cute. Put me down."

"You guys would make a good couple if she wasn't gay," Fowler said.

"Just shut up and don't piss on my dead consultant, all right?" Peter snarled at him.

_Freeze!_ Jones wobbled a little because he was holding Diana, and Mozzie was midway through cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his shirt. _And we have … Horror!_

Neal took the reins. (Because really, somebody had to.) He sat straight up, held his arms out before him, tipped his head back and moaned loudly at the ceiling, startling the hell out of Elizabeth. "Bwaaaains!" he continued, going with the zombie angle. He staggered to his feet, keeping one arm out in front of him and intelligently using the other to pull his pants back up all the way, because he was feeling a draft down there. "Bwains," he said again, staggering around the circle of people. "Yummy bwains." He pretended to attack Fowler ... "Juicy bwains!" ... then he pulled back. "Ooooh, nuffing doing! Need bwains, not shwivelled peanuts! Must ... look ... elsewhere!"

Hughes was trying not to laugh. "Uh oh," he said with a grin, just as Neal staggered towards him, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed, arms out in front like Frankenstein and one leg in the air.

_Freeze! And … Western!_

Neal obediently stayed with his arms and leg frozen like that, but stopped being a zombie immediately. "Can I get out of the stocks now, Sheriff?" he asked Hughes.

"I don't know," Hughes said uncertainly.

"Oh come on, I've been here for three hours!" Neal complained. "The sun's beating down and the ants are crawling up my butt crack. Have mercy!"

"All right, all right," said Hughes, and pretended to unlock him.

Neal moved away and Peter walked into their scene, his hands on an invisible pair of six shooters. Hughes did the same, and narrowed his eyes. Neal, trying to be helpful, whistled the opening notes of "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly."

"Thanks, Neal," Peter deadpanned.

"No problem."

Peter sized up Hughes. "You know, you look vaguely like Clint Eastwood when you do that. This one could actually work."

"No it couldn't," Hughes said, trying for Eastwood in his voice anyway. "Hands up, ya varmint. There's only room for one sheriff in this town, and that's me."

Peter raised his hands in surrender and grinned.

_Freeze! … Supernatural!_

Nobody knew what to do. White Collar had nothing to do with the supernatural. Peter put his hands on his hips and frowned.

"I don't know about everybody else," Jones said, setting Diana down. "But I say, Sam and Dean Winchester, for the win!"

"Hear, hear!" said Elizabeth.

"Oh my God, best show on television," Mozzie agreed. "Uh … after this one, of course," he added when everyone stared at him.

Neal was a little exasperated. "Guys, I don't think that's the sort of 'supernatural' the author is talking about."

"Who cares?" said Diana. "It's a great show."

"Besides, what are we going to do with that category?" Elizabeth argued. "One of you is going to put on a sheet and pretend to be a g–… Fowler, you need help."

Fowler had gotten his hands on a white bed sheet. "Whoooo!" he moaned, staggering towards her blindly because he hadn't cut any eyeholes. He fell over on his face with the sheet still covering him. "Ow."

_Freeze! … Crime!_

"Bastard had it coming," Neal said, snatching up his fedora and cocking it at a rakish angle on his head. He stood under the light so as to emphasize the dangerously beautiful, hard planes of his face, looked at Fowler with little interest and put his hands in his pockets, cutting a figure straight out of a Raymond Chandler novel. "Can't say anyone will miss him, but it was a terrible way to go."

"What happened?" Mozzie asked, stepping up next to him.

"Stabbed to death with a spork."

"No witnesses?" Peter jumped in.

"Too many witnesses, that's the problem. And since so many people wanted this guy dead, there's too many suspects, too. And ... too many motives. And whatever other issue I can come up with. Come on, somebody else say something."

"Case closed?" Peter suggested.

_Freeze! Sci Fi!_

"Hey look, I'm that blind guy from Star Trek!" Jones announced, grabbing Diana's colorful scarf right off her neck. He tied it over his eyes and ran away.

"Give me that!" she shouted and gave chase.

Just then, Fowler had found a way to revive himself. "Raawr!" he bellowed, standing up and throwing off the sheet.

"It's a monster from deep space!" Neal yelled. He darted around to hide behind Peter.

Peter approached Fowler. "Easy there, big fella," he said, then pressed a hand to Fowler's flank and made a "Bzzzzt!" noise.

Fowler stopped "rawr"ing and stared at him. "What the hell was that?"

"My proton gun. Duh," Peter said, as though this made all the sense in the world. "Now die like a good little space monster and don't pee on anyone before you do."

"You're really not going to let that go, are you?" Fowler asked.

"Where's my tazer?" Peter answered, and pretended to check his pockets.

"All right, all right!" Fowler sighed heavily and then shook his jowls and twitched violently, as though he'd been electrocuted. (Actually, he wasn't half bad.) He fell over and made a hissing noise while fluttering one hand up and away from his side.

Mozzie scratched his head. "What the –?"

"Steaming corpse," Neal explained.

"Ah."

_Freeze! Suspense!_

"Gee," said Mozzie in that same terrible monotone, "I'm absolutely terrified and yet excited for whatever will happen next. Move it along."

_... Okeedokee. ... And … Angst!_

Neal fell to his knees, fisted his hair and shouted, "Whyyyyy?" Then he released his hair and looked around at the circle of people, including Fowler, who was still playing dead. "I can't think of anything else to say. That's good enough, right?"

"Fine by me," Peter said.

Jones ran by and leapt straight over Fowler, with Diana still hot on his heels. She was pleading with him. "Come on, man, knock it off. You're a lawsuit waiting to happen. And that's my favorite scarf!"

Neal was still on his knees, arms out, face towards the sky, heaving for breath and doing his best to look angstified. (Which wasn't a word, but whatever.)

"What this 'angst' business all about, anyway?" Hughes asked thoughtfully. "It can't be a genre. It's an emotion, sure, I can recall angsting as an adolescent quite a bit, but ... a genre?"

_Oh, don't get me started, sir. Okay, people, turning the corner! We have … Spiritual!_

Everyone started doing random things at the same time, interpreting the instruction in their own ways. It was chaos.

"Please, God, help us!" Neal pleaded with something invisible on the ceiling.

"Back, ye demon, back!" Elizabeth yelled at Fowler, who was writhing and hissing at her. She took a ruler and poked at him with it.

Peter casually put one hand in his pocket and with the other he made a classic religious hand gesture, with the thumb and first two fingers up, and the ring and pinky finger curled in.

"Burke, what on earth are you doing?" Hughes asked.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No."

"I'm Saint Peter!"

"Yeah, you're the patron saint of criminals everywhere!" Mozzie said, laughing, and blew a raspberry at him. He turned tail and ran as Peter growled and gave chase.

Neal, meanwhile, had stood up and was halfway through the first verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." Diana and Jones ran back in, Diana with her scarf back in place, and joined him, throwing their arms around each other's shoulders. "Comin' for ta carry me hoooome..." they all crooned together.

Peter cornered Mozzie and got him by the collar. "Not in the face!" Mozzie yelled, and tried to shield himself. Elizabeth continued to poke at Fowler, and Hughes pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Freeze! … Adventure!_

"Halt, you fiend! Release that man! For we are the Three Musketeers!" Neal announced, charging at Peter while dragging Diana and Jones along with him. "Athos, D'Artagnan, and ... that other guy!" He turned to Diana. "I can never remember the third Musketeer."

"Oh, hold up, I'll Google it," Mozzie said, digging in his pocket for his Blackberry. He'd completely forgotten to be scared of Peter, who still had him by the collar, and started typing on the tiny keyboard. Peter rolled his eyes.

Diana, meanwhile, was trying to figure out whether or not to be offended by Neal's idea. "Weren't the Musketeers all men?"

"Guys had pretty long hair back in the day," Jones said. "You're good."

"Let's do this," Neal commanded. "All for one, and one for all! Charge!"

And they glomped Peter. He let go of Mozzie, who stepped back, uncaring of the fracas, and kept typing away. Elizabeth and Fowler wandered over to see what Mozzie's search was turning up and Reese looked over his shoulder curiously. Peter, meanwhile, was rolling around trying to free himself from his three subordinates.

"Get off me, all of you!" Peter complained, and finally shoved his two giggling underlings onto the floor. Neal was a lot trickier to pin down, though. He hopped on Peter's back like a monkey and wouldn't let go. So Peter fell backwards and landed on him, which shook him off pretty effectively, and they started horsing around on the floor in an impromptu wrestling match.

"Got it!" Mozzie called. Everybody turned and looked at him, even Peter, who had Neal by the hair, and Neal, who had Peter by the tie. "Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are the Three Musketeers. D'Artagnan's the main character, but he doesn't start out as a Musketeer."

"Yeah, but he becomes one in the end, right?" Peter asked, and promptly pinned Neal on the carpet, getting him in a bear hug.

"Don't know. I'm still reading," Mozzie replied.

Neal sighed underneath Peter. "I hate wrestling. I never win."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Well, of course not. You're built like a ballet dancer."

_Freeze! … Romance!_

Diana and Jones had gotten up to join the Mozzie/Elizabeth/Fowler/Reese group, leaving Neal and Peter on the floor. They both realized the position they were in and groaned. Neal didn't tear his gaze away from Peter's – they were inches apart – and growled, "Author, you're so in for it when this is over."

_Sorry, dude._

Neal sighed helplessly. "Peter ... I apologize in advance, man."

Peter didn't look happy about this, either. "Just do what you have to do."

"Peter?" Elizabeth asked.

"I llll... I luuu... Oh, this is gross," Neal said. "I can't say it. You say it."

"No way am I saying it," Peter argued, still hugging Neal. "You do it! C'mon, Caffrey, cowboy up. Get this over with."

That gave Neal an idea. It wasn't a good idea. It was in fact a terrible and horribly trite idea, but it would allow them to complete this category and move on, and he and Peter had already agreed to take one for the team, so Neal put on the thickest Texas accent he could summon and said, "Peter Burke, ah wish ah could quit you."

And then he kissed Peter. Hard. Peter scrunched his eyes shut and tried not to flinch. Elizabeth gasped. The rest of their small audience stared, open-mouthed. The guys broke off after two painful seconds, and Neal turned his head away and spat on the floor.

"Spthoo! Ugh. That … is just lovely. I'm getting big bold notes of burnt coffee," Neal spat again, "And … yep, there it is … delicate overtones of day-old deviled ham. Yum." He allowed Peter to help him to his feet and dusted himself off.

Peter looked slightly shell-shocked. "I feel dirty."

"Can we move on?" Diana asked.

"Yeah, I think I just went blind in one eye," Mozzie added.

_Freeze! … Drama!_

"Oh no, now I'm blind in the other eye!" Mozzie shrieked, taking off his glasses and pocketing them. "Neither of my eyes works! Help! Someone help me!" He began feeling his way around as though he couldn't see and "accidentally" put his hands right on Elizabeth's chest. She raised an eyebrow.

"That's terrible," Neal said, but it didn't have quite the right inflection behind it, so it sounded more like a comment on Mozzie's acting skills than the situation.

"No kidding," Peter agreed. "Hey, get your hands off my wife!"

Neal had to clarify. "No I mean, we're being dramatic, here. Oh, no! This is terrible! Poor Mozzie! Whatever will we do?"

"Well, there's a great clinic upstate that treats blindness ... and sews hands back on," Elizabeth said to Moz, who immediately took the hint and sheepishly removed himself from her vicinity.

"It's okay, Moz," Neal said, putting an arm around him. "We might fix this, or we might not, but either way, we'll make adjustments for you and love you in spite of your condition. The whole thing might dissolve into an overly emotional mess, but don't worry, man. We got this."

_Freeze! Fantasy!_

"... Or we can seek out Reese the Gray, Wise Wizard of the North." Neal was thinking at about a thousand miles an hour. "... He's a mage-level wizard, and a really great guy, and he can cure blindness. I think." He was frantically waving Hughes away towards his upstairs office as he said this, and Hughes took the hint and trotted off. "But in order to reach his mountain hut, we must pass through ... grave dangers!"

Mozzie, still feigning blindness, looked around aimlessly. "If you say so, Frodo."

Neal glared at him. "Mozzie, if anybody's Frodo around here, it's you. Just call me ... Sir George. Sir George of Devore. Come! You may ride with me on my noble steed." When nobody moved, he crossed his arms and stared at Peter. "Hey! Noble steed! Come here!"

Pressed into service, Peter trotted over to them. "I need a coconut cut in half for clip-clop noises," he said. Suddenly, that very thing fell out of the sky and landed in his hands. "Perfect!" And he started in. He was actually pretty good at it. He made three clip-clops when Elizabeth and Diana stopped them.

"Halt!" said Elizabeth, writhing invitingly and encouraging Diana to do the same. "For we are sirens! You cannot pass us! We will ... sing!"

"And dance!" Diana threatened.

"And you will fall prey to our charms and we will ... um ... eat you!" Elizabeth went on. "Or whatever it is that sirens d- Mozzie, for crying out loud, put the Blackberry away."

"What? You obviously don't know what you're doing. I was about to Google sirens."

"You can't Google anything without OCR software," Neal argued. "You're blind. Gimme." They started struggling for the device.

"No!" Mozzie was desperately trying to hang on.

"Give it to me, or Peter's gonna eat it. He's a horse."

Peter gave a very horsey snort and clacked his teeth at Mozzie.

"Goats are the things that eat everything, not horses."

Neal was not in the mood, and time was ticking away. "Peter? Congratulations. You're a goat."

"Baa-a-a-a-ah," said Peter.

"That's a sheep, honey," Elizabeth said. "Honestly, when we get home, I'm giving you a refresher course on animal noises." Everyone turned and stared at her, and realizing how that had come out, she blushed to the roots of her hair. "That's not what I meant. Can we move along, here?"

"Fine," Mozzie said, relinquishing his precious BB to Neal, who pocketed it. "Well, what are we going to do about the sirens, genius? Kill them?"

"No, we're going to scare them away. Take off your shirt."

Elizabeth and Diana were already starting to wince and turn away, but it was too late. The round tummy, the fuzz ... it wasn't exactly GQ material. Mozzie was a bit of a teddy bear. The ladies ran away "shrieking" and trying not to laugh, and the little band clip-clopped to the steps. Fowler and Jones stopped them.

"Halt! We are the Knights Who Say ... Nuh Uh," said Jones, and he looked very pleased with himself for having come up with this. Fowler crossed his arms and looked menacing.

Even though Peter was pretending to be a horse, he couldn't help exchanging a look with Neal. Neal grinned.

"Hey, noble steed, I don't feel like fighting these guys. Why don't you baffle them with a riddle?"

Peter loved riddles. He cleared his throat and rattled one off at lightning speed. "You walk down a path and arrive at two doors. Opening one of the doors will lead you to a life of prosperity and happiness, while opening the other door will lead to a life of misery and sorrow. You don't know which door leads to which life. In front of the doors are twin brothers. Only they know which door leads where. One of the brothers always lies, and the other always tells the truth, and you don't know which is which. You are allowed to ask one single question of one of the brothers to figure out which door to open. What question do you ask?"

Jones blinked and started mumbling to himself and ticking things off on his fingers, going back and forth. Fowler looked like he'd had a stroke and began to drool.

"Quick, while they're preoccupied!" Neal said. He and Peter hustled Mozzie up the stairs and banged on Hughes's door.

Hughes leaned out, bending his back and looking grumpy. "Who dares disturb Reese the ... what am I, again?"

"The Gray," Neal supplied.

"Reese the Gray!" he boomed. "Thank you," he said sotto voce to Neal. Neal nodded. Hughes turned the volume back up. "Well?"

"Um, we do, your wizard ... ship," Neal said. "Our little friend here has been blinded. Can you help him?"

"I'm not little!" Mozzie protested. "I'm vertically challenged!"

"Oh, be quiet. I have to cast a spell," Hughes said. He flapped his arms all over the place and shouted, "Amarosa Mimosa Toyota Havanagila Whamsterdam!"

Everyone stared at him, including Mozzie, who was supposed to still be blind.

"Whamsterdam?" said Peter.

"What are you, Mr. Ed?" Hughes snapped, and Peter looked embarrassed. "Blammo! You're cured!"

"I can see!" Mozzie exulted, putting his glasses back on.

_Freeze! Friendship!_

"Hey, what a pal," Mozzie continued, shaking Hughes's hand. Hughes, amused, returned the gesture heartily.

"Are we done here?" the older man asked the author hopefully.

_Nope. Sorry, sir. Somebody needs to apologize and make nice with somebody else before we move on from this category. _

Everyone looked at each other, confused. Neal turned to Peter. "We're good, right?"

Peter nodded and smiled. "Yeah, we're fine."

Jones looked sheepishly at Diana. "Sorry I stole your scarf."

Diana laughed. "Jones, it's okay."

Then, as one, the group turned to Fowler. Fowler's cheeks went red, but he crossed his arms and planted his feet. "No way. I'm not apologizing. I'm not Caffrey's friend, and I never will be."

"Come on, Fowler, be a little bigger than that," Peter chided. "Friendship isn't just about being bosom buddies; it's about getting along."

Neal looked at Fowler calmly. And Fowler sighed. "Fine. Caffrey, I'm sorry I pantsed you. It was stupid. And … I'm sorry about Kate."

Neal pondered this for a moment. "Apology accepted. You were just a pawn in the game anyway, same as I was."

_Freeze! Parody!_

Nobody moved, and Peter spoke for everyone. "You're kidding, right? Consider that box checked. We're moving on."

_Fair enough. All right, folks, hang in there. Two left! First is: General!_

Neal stuck his hand in his shirt like Napoleon. Soon all the other men were doing the same and smiling.

"What does that even mean, anyway?" Peter asked.

_No idea. And … your final challenge: Family!_

"Long lost twice removed on my brother's aunt's side Cousin Elizabeth!" Jones said in a rush, arms wide open. He hurried over and embraced her. She hugged him back.

"Uncle Reese!" said Mozzie, and hugged Hughes. Hughes allowed it.

"Brothers?" Neal asked Peter.

"Why not?" Peter responded, and they fist-bumped. "You can be my brother from another mother."

"Cousin Elizabeth, I'd like you to meet my half-sister Diana," Jones said, inviting his fellow agent over. Elizabeth took her hand with a bright smile.

"And everyone, this is my completely insane brother-in-law, Garrett," Hughes introduced Fowler.

"Group photo!" Neal said. "Come on everybody, get in the picture!"

Everyone laughed and tripped over each other as they tried to squeeze into an imaginary shot, arms around each other, smiles bright. To their complete surprise, there was a flash.

_I'll send you all a print. Your time was, and I kid you not: nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Great job, everybody! The baked goods will be waiting for you when you get home, and you may now return to your regularly scheduled lives. Thanks for playing. Take care…_

Suddenly, the lighting changed and the White Collar office was full of busy agents. Elizabeth, Mozzie, and Fowler had disappeared, leaving Neal, Peter, Diana, Jones, and Hughes standing in a circle in the bullpen, clothes and hair slightly askew from all the challenges. Neal blinked at the others.

"How about we make a pact to never talk about this?"

Everyone made a lot of noise in their agreement.

"We should get back to work," Peter said.

That sounded like a plan. They dispersed, and Neal plopped down at his desk. Sitting on top of a few mortgage fraud case files was a plain, 8 x 10 manila envelope that said simply _FFN WC 2010_. Neal quickly stuffed it in his top drawer. He'd open it later when he had some privacy at June's, preferably over a finger of scotch and a nice hot scone.

THE END

* * *

Well, I did warn you. Nutty as it was, I hope it was at least entertaining. What did you think? Concrit of any kind is very welcome.

Oh, one last thing. The answer to Peter's classic riddle is the following question: _If you were your brother, which door would you say is the door to happiness? _(And then you pick the opposite door.)

Cheers,

Kiki


End file.
